


Mouth Kisses Are Disgusting

by HidingintheInkwell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1, Confused Sherlock Holmes, F/M, Gross, M/M, Sweet Kisses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, watching parents suck face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29098242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingintheInkwell/pseuds/HidingintheInkwell
Summary: Sherlock had always found kisses disgusting. The swapping of body fluids and no telling what you’re taking in, another person’s germs, what they last ate, the possibilities were endless. Kissing strangers on the mouth with no telling whether or not they could be sick. French kissing and the idea of feeling another person’s tongue often made him want to retch.So why is this time so much different?
Relationships: John Watson/Other(s), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 13





	Mouth Kisses Are Disgusting

Sherlock watched, unnoticed, through the crack in the office door as mummy and daddy ate each other’s faces off. Logically, he knew they weren’t  _ actually  _ eating one another as that would be cannibalism and not becoming for persons of their status, but the way they were going at it, they might as well have been. Whenever they could be bothered to separate for air, Sherlock could see glimpses of teeth and tongue and spit-wet lips before they were diving back in again. His face scrunched in disgust before he turned away from the office. No, he didn’t think he liked kisses at all. They looked disgusting, slobbery, like when Toby got excited after a game and slobbered all over him. He didn’t mind when Toby did it, so much, since Toby was, after all, a dog. Dog’s didn’t know any better than to show their affection by slobbering all over you. There was no way he’d ever let a human slobber all over him like that, though. Not the way mummy and daddy were when they thought no one was watching. 

***

Sherlock’s feelings still hadn’t changed when Sadie Morton kissed him behind the bleachers in Grade Eight, or when Myrtle Bates drunkenly tried to make out with him at a party his Uni roommate had dragged him along to. Sadie Morton’s kiss had been little more than a damp, nervous press of lips on lips, and when he had done nothing more than stand there like a post, she’d run off in tears. Two days later he’d walked in on her making out rather enthusiastically with the Captain of the Debate team, so he’d figured she’d gotten over her disappointment rather easily. What he’d received from Myrtle Bates wasn’t so much of a kiss as it was a rather wet, violent clashing of lips and teeth. She’d reeked of cheap alcohol and cherry lip gloss, and had repeatedly done her best to shove her tongue down his throat before he’d none too gently pushed her away. She’d pouted and wavered on her feet before retching on his shoes and waddling off, likely to find another beverage or a more willing body to make out with. After regaining his bearings, Sherlock had left the party, throwing his shoes in the nearest rubbish bin on the way out, and put in a request for a new roommate the next morning. As none were willing to room with him, he’d been placed in a single.

Over the years that followed, Sherlock had only managed to get caught in an unexpected kiss a handful of times. Usually, one or both parties were completely smashing drunk, often it was someone he’d helped on a case, and on rare occasions it was in the throws of passion when the body he was using, or who was using him, forgot themselves. The ones he could remember, he always recalled being rather repulsive; breath nearly always reeking of alcohol or cigarette smoke, a wet slide of tongue that made him feel not unlike he was being attacked by an overly enthusiastic camel, and the way the other’s spit slimed and clung to his skin, leaving it feeling tight and itching even long after he’d scrubbed it pink. He never understood how couples could spend hours like that, locked together with their tongues in each other’s mouths like dueling  Holothuroidea, breathing in one another’s carbon dioxide. 

The idea was often enough to make him retch, swapping bodily fluids with no way of telling what you’re taking in; another person’s germs, what they last ate, any other person they’d come into intimate contact with, the possibilities were endless. He tended to avoid invitations from the Yard to join them at a local pub on principle, not in the least alluding to the inevitable fact that he would see couples making out, often with strangers they’d known for less than an hour. That was possibly one of the worst kinds, not knowing if the person you’re kissing was sick with some form of communicable disease, only bested over by what was so accurately called  _ French  _ kissing. No, in his opinion there was no kind of kissing that was remotely palatable, and as his opinion was more frequently than not correct, he saw no reason to change it. 

***

John Watson was an anomaly in an otherwise flawless equation. At the first meeting he’d thought he’d known everything about the blond ex-soldier, and yet. There was always an ‘and yet’ when it came to John. For such an ordinary looking man, he was constantly full of surprises. That he wasn’t put off by Sherlock was one, after the first few months as flatmates, John would only offer up a put upon sigh when finding some body part in the fridge, or the oven, or the bathtub. He rarely complained about Sherlock playing his violin at three in the morning, and wouldn’t offer a second glance when Sherlock burst into the apartment covered in blood or fireplace ash. Yes, John was an anomaly, but what really had Sherlock’s mind reeling was that, for all his girlfriends, John was never what Sherlock had heard referred to as “lovey dovey” with them. 

They rarely if ever came back to the flat, but that had never stopped Sherlock before. Whenever he knew John was going out on a date, he would sneak out and spy, curiosity leading him to see if John acted the same with all his interests as he had with Sarah. Sherlock had watched many couples over the years, and they always seemed to follow a similar pattern; lots of contact, shared gazing, and more than a little of kissing. Sometimes they were passionate, full blown make out sessions for all the world to see, sometimes they were chaste presses of lips to skin--sometimes shy and awkward, sometimes born of time and familiarity. John was not like that. Any hand holding was usually initiated by her, and they rarely shared kisses in public. For such a passionate, emotional person as John was, he rarely showed it out in public. It was confusing, and that was a feeling Sherlock was not used to experiencing. 

It had been a little over a week since John’s last date--he’d been taking a Librarian named Marcy to a late lunch and then maybe catch something at the cinema--had been interrupted by a break in a case Sherlock had been working for the Yard. It hadn’t  _ strictly  _ required John’s assistance, in fact, Sherlock had it mostly wrapped up within the first couple days, but there had been a fiddly bit of “proper human interaction” that always worked better when he had John. All it had taken was a text, and Marcy was being dropped off at her flat without even so much as a kiss goodbye and John was meeting up with Sherlock. 

Sherlock was thinking back on all of this because he was bored, and his new favorite puzzle was his flat mate. It must have been late, because when he resurfaced from the depths of his mind palace it was dark and the tea he vaguely remembered John setting in front of him on the way out the door was now stone cold and a bit filmy. There was the slow, exhausted sound of footsteps plodding up the steps, but they were now as familiar to him as the feel of his violin so he didn’t feel the need to turn from his seat in John’s armchair, sure the doctor would only pause long enough to see if Sherlock was still up (of course he was, there were puzzles to be solved and he was much too bored to sleep) before heading up to bed. 

True to form, John trudged in through the door a moment later, shrugging off his coat and looking content despite the exhaustion that hung off of him like wet rags. Easy day, then. Either his last few patients were kids, or older ones who he likes. No bad news today. Sherlock watched without moving his head as John toed off his shoes and shuffled into the kitchen, picking up Sherlock’s forgotten mug and dumping it into the sink on the way. The quiet sounds of John tinkering in the kitchen, pulling out fresh mugs and sugar while he waited for the kettle were soothing, familiar. He’d spent so long alone with nothing but quiet, but now he was sure that if he was thrown back into that world, he’d go mad. 

He was thinking about whether or not John would notice if he recorded the sounds of his daily routine when a strange break in routine caused his brain to stutter for a moment before speeding double time to make up for the new information. John had set a fresh cup of tea down in front of the detective, normal in it’s routine, but then he’d pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s curls before shuffling off in the direction of the stairs with a mumbled “try to get some real sleep, please”. Sherlock took a sip of his tea, barely registering its proper temperature and sugar ratio. His brain kept catching and recatching on this break in the routine. 

The cup was nearly empty and John’s footsteps had long since faded before Sherlock’s brain could begin to process and hypothesize at what had just happened. There was a chance that John, in his sleep-muddled state, had mistaken him for Marcy or Sarah, or another of the women who’d come into his life, but as Sherlock flipped through his mental catalogue (faces kept in case one comes up in a case or approaches him on the street, even if their names had been regarded as irrelevant data) he could not recall any of them being remotely similar in appearance. Many fit a very similar look; slightly shorter than John with soft looking hair they tended to keep straight. Marcy in particular had rather vibrant red hair that she wore flowing and half way down her back whenever she and John went out; nothing like Sherlock’s own dark, springy locks that likely smelled a bit like shampoo and gunpowder as he’d gone out to the range the other day and hadn’t washed it since. 

Yes, it was a possibility that John had just mistaken him, but it was an increasingly slim one. Sherlock lifted a hand and touched the spot where John’s lips had met his scalp, imagining that he could almost feel the point of contact tingling. It really couldn’t have been considered much of a kiss, more a press of a mouth into his hair than anything, but it made Sherlock feel funny inside, not unpleasant the way other kisses he’d witnessed or experienced made him feel, just funny. It was an experiment he needed to try and repeat. He needed more data to work with. 

***

Despite his best efforts, he could not replicate the original events of the anomaly. John frequently came back tired from the practice, shed his jacket and shoes, and made himself and Sherlock tea, but he didn’t try to kiss Sherlock again. Sometimes he’d pat him on the shoulder, or run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, sometimes he’d do nothing at all, simply offer Sherlock the tea and go up to bed. It was incredibly frustrating. Sherlock could swear the kiss was burning its way through his skull and into his brain. It was beginning to drive him to distraction to the point where even the most incompetent inspectors at the Yard were beginning to notice. 

This distracting enigma was likely the reason he found himself sitting in the waiting room of the clinic, a borrowed handkerchief wrapped around his hand. He’d been running experiments down in Bart’s labs when instead of slicing into a brain segment that Molly had so helpfully procured for him, he’d wound up slicing into his own palm. Luckily for him, the owner of the brain had not died from anything communicable. Molly had insisted he go to the clinic and refused to let him into anywhere else until he did, even going so far as to call Lestrade to make sure he didn’t slip off to pilfer case files, and John to warn him Sherlock was coming. He supposed he should be grateful that she hadn’t insisted on going so far as to escort him like a small child. He was still pouting when the door to John’s office opened, expelling a little girl with a head full of blond curls whose nose had a cartoony plaster covered in ducks pasted over it. The undersides of her blue eyes were tinged faintly purple, but she was grinning and babbling on to her mother as she skipped along, so Sherlock suspected a likely playground-related incident. 

“Sherlock?” by the tone, this was probably not the first time John had called his name. He  _ had  _ to stop this near constant distraction, it was making him miss things, and that could lead to more than a sliced hand. Pushing himself to his feet, he followed John into the small office and settled down into a chair, listening to the door click shut, followed by John’s idle shuffling as he gathered paperwork before turning to face Sherlock. “So what is it you did to yourself this time?” he asked, as though Molly hadn’t likely told him when she’d called to say Sherlock would be coming. He didn’t sound put upon, though. He sounded amused, and there was a grin on his face that had Sherlock’s mind wondering if a grin would feel different pressed against his head. 

He blinked, and hazel-blue eyes were closer than he expected, staring at him from behind a blinding light. He jerked back in his chair. “I didn’t hit my head, as you know.” John sat back on his stool and let the light drop. “Molly did say something about your hand, but I wanted to make sure you hadn’t done anything to yourself before that. You’ve been abnormally unfocused lately, Sherlock. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Sherlock nodded, thrusting out his hand wrapped in a now bloodstained handkerchief. He’d owe Molly a new one, there was no getting the stains out of this one without ruining it. John took it with the same kind of gentleness one might approach an injured bird.  _ Or a bomb,  _ a part of his brain supplied, but all that was quickly forgotten as John unwrapped the makeshift bandage, callused fingers gentle as they manipulated Sherlock’s hand. He found himself holding his breath and, unsure why, released it as slowly and quietly as he could. It was not particularly quiet in the office, sounds of life from the lobby and the street beyond making their way in through the windows and under the doors, yet it all still felt muffled and distanced. Maybe he  _ had _ done something to his head. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic gel brought him back from his musings. John had dabbed a bit onto a cotton swab and was cleaning the cut. “Not exceptionally deep, luckily for you,” John was saying idly, “you’re an absolute nightmare with stitches. It’ll be fine with just a bandage, but you’ve got to promise me you’ll wear a glove when doing experiments of  _ any kind  _ until it’s completely healed. The last thing either of us want is something nasty finding its way in there and setting up house. You hear me?” Sherlock nodded and, when John continued to stare, swallowed and replied properly with an honest if slightly mocking “yes, doctor.” It got John to smile, though, so he counted it as a win. 

Still holding on to Sherlock’s wrist, John reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrapped plaster. Sherlock was expecting a plain flesh tone one, or maybe even a waterproof one given his propensity to end up wet even when he doesn’t mean to, but to his surprise the plaster that was wrapped over his cut was a dark purple and covered in cartoon ducks. He gave John an incredulous look that morphed into one of blatant surprise before it could be seen, because the doctor had just lifted the covered injury and pressed a light kiss to it. Sherlock’s hand tingled like he’d touched a live wire. 

When he met Sherlock’s dumbstruck expression, he had the audacity to offer the detective a grin. “Force of habit. The little girl you saw leaving is a regular and always insists that kisses make boo boos heal faster.” Sherlock could only nod, his hand momentarily hanging in mid-air as John wheeled back to throw away wrappers before letting it drop silently back to his lap. His mind was spinning. John’s lips had been warm, dry. Slightly chapped, though that was no surprise given the man’s propensity to lose chapsticks. His hand was still tingling, and a part of his brain seemed convinced he could actually feel his skin stitching itself together, as though convinced the idea that kisses made injuries heal faster was true. 

He was no longer convinced John was mistaking him for his current love interest, as John was neither half asleep, nor had recently been on a date, that theory had to be discarded. He mentally searched through the data he’d collected. Perhaps the common factor wasn’t a love interest, but a child? John had come home happy last time, and Sherlock had theorized that it was because his last patient for the evening had likely been a child, and here again John had kissed his hand because his last patient was a child who believed in the magic healing power of kissing. 

“I’ve got a few more appointments lined up before I’m off for the day. I can pick up Indian if you feel up for it tonight?” Sherlock blinked. Had John been talking long? He looked up. John was leaning against the sink with a file open in his hand. Another patient’s paperwork. He should probably leave. “So, Indian? You want that chicken curry dish again, or did you want to try something else?” John looked up, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just turned Sherlock’s world completely on end. He nodded. “Indian sounds fine.” He stood. John frowned. Sherlock couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t a good look on him. That mouth looked better smiling. 

“Sherlock, are you sure you’re alright?” Good question. Was he alright? His brain was spinning faster than even his most intriguing cases and his hand was still tingling. His fingers were starting to feel numb. “Yes,” he heard himself say, though he had no memory of his mouth moving to form the word. Then he was turning and walking out the door. 

***

Despite his best efforts, the edges of the cartoony plaster had begun to fray and it had eventually fallen off to reveal a pale pink line of fresh skin, surprisingly dark against his pallid complexion. For the first several days he’d contemplated the merits of replicating the accident in order to see if the results remained the same, but had quickly discarded the idea. As a rule, he was not clumsy or prone to hurting himself, usually any injuries came from a suspect in a case. There was also no guarantee of the child factor. Children were notoriously clumsy, but they were also notoriously unpredictable. He’d once heard them referred to as being made of rubber. He refused to entertain the thought of purposely staging an incident. Too often others had warned him of how similar he could be to Moriarty, and despite what Anderson and Donovan often said, there were certain levels he would not stoop to. 

As much as the puzzle picked at him, he tried to push it to the back of his mind and let his unconscious brain work it over. A week and a half after his incident in the labs he caught a case. The Yard had caught a possible homicide. The victim had apparently died from anaphylactic shock, his tongue swollen to the size of a bratwurst, but his medical history pointed towards no obvious allergens that could have caused that severe of a reaction. Sherlock had, of course, brought John along, both because of his medical expertise and because it irritated Anderson to no end. 

Their examination of the body had turned up a puncture mark between the victim’s middle and ring finger on his right hand, and the remnants of a healing rash on the heel of his palm and the tips of his fingers. The following toxicology report had pointed to the culprit of nickel sulphate, an uncommon allergy wherein the victims cannot handle loose change as it causes a rash and hives to break out. Somehow, someone had managed to distill nickel sulphate into an injectable, liquid form. After a series of phone calls and some sanctioned hacking of biochemical labs and minting plants later, Sherlock found himself chasing their suspect down a long, rather narrow alley while sirens and the shouts of Yard D.I.s rang out around them. John had been called in to cover a shift at the surgery right before Sherlock had managed to crack the case, so for the first time in a while the detective was alone. 

The alley their murderer had chosen took a sharp left turn before dead ending at a chainlink fence. Sherlock slowed his steps to keep a safe distance between himself and the suspect. He could hear the sirens getting closer, knew it was only a matter of moments before this man was in custody, but a lot could happen in the span of a moment, and he’d already caught the tell-tale bulge of a weapon in the suspect’s pocket. 

Realizing he was trapped, the man had begun to pace, eyes wide in the fading light as he contemplated whether or not he could climb the fence. It was at least three meters high and topped with razor wire. Unlikely and unadvised. Sherlock could see the approaching red and blues. So could the suspect. Realizing the only escape was blocked by Sherlock, the suspect spun on him, and Sherlock braced himself for a fight. 

It was all over rather anticlimactically. The suspect was desperate and uncoordinated. He did manage to get in one lucky shot across Sherlock’s jawbone before a well aimed shot from Donovan sent him crumbling to the ground clutching at his leg. The gate was unlocked, the suspect loaded into an ambulance, and the Lestrade was taking one look at the rapidly purpling mark and told Sherlock to go home and let John handle it. He’d get the rest of the statement written up tomorrow. 

John was reading a medical journal on the couch when Sherlock came in, telly playing some late night comedy quietly in the background. “So you got him, then?” John asked, not bothering to look up yet. Sherlock hummed, hanging up his scarf and coat before heading for the kitchen where John had recently prepared a fresh pot of tea in anticipation. He must have had it on the news station before turning it over. When he turned around, he nearly dropped his cup. John was standing right behind him, brow pinched into a frown. Without asking, he gripped Sherlock by the arm and dragged him into a kitchen chair, tilting his head back while expert fingers prodded at the skin around what he was sure would be a spectacular bruise come morning. His hands shook slightly around the cup of tea and he quickly set it down before John could hear the rattle. 

The fingers on his face were cool against his heated skin, and he could practically feel the bruise pulsating with its own heartbeat. Desperation had made the suspect strong. John’s face was a professional mask as he felt along jaw and cheekbone to make sure there were no fractures, but Sherlock could read the guilt and blame that hid behind his eyes. “Not your fault,” he mumbled, finding it sore to open his mouth and speak. John shook his head before turning away to pull an ice pack from the freezer. “Should have been there. The bastard wouldn’t have had a chance to get his arms up if there’d been two of us.” 

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Despite his background in the military, John was not prone to swearing. Maybe a few choice words at the telly when a footie match was not going the way it should, or an utterance under his breath at a particularly violent crime scene, but never over something like this. He accepted the ice pack, pressing it to the bruise and letting the cold sink into his bones, numbing the throbbing to a dull pulse. They stayed frozen like that for a long several minutes, Sherlock with the rapidly thawing ice pack pressed to his face and John still standing, just watching him, eyes in constant motion like he was assuring himself there was no other damage, that he hadn’t missed anything. 

His face was numb and condensation was dripping down his arm by the time John let him remove the now melted compress. Setting it aside, John’s fingers were now burning matches against his skin as he manipulated Sherlock’s face, pressing around the edges of the bruise and examining the area now that the cold had taken away the swelling. “What’s the verdict, doctor?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t sound nearly as hoarse to John as it did to himself. 

John cracked a smile for the first time all evening, and Sherlock realized how much he’d missed it. “Your looks are going to be a little more rugged than usual for a bit, but I think you’ll survive. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t cut himself on those cheekbones.” Sherlock felt his neck warm at the off handed compliment, but before he could reply, John was filling his space, the kiss pressed to his cheek feeling like a brand. “Go get some sleep,” John murmured when he pulled away. “If you find it sore in the morning, I can give you some paracetamol, but I don’t want you taking anything without me knowing, you hear?”

Sherlock could only nod, somehow feeling both like he’d been set on fire, yet somehow also cold and empty. Oblivious to his affects on his flatmate, John smiled and turned to go. Sherlock only let him make it about five steps before he found his voice. “Did any children come in during your shift today?” 

John paused, head tilted slightly in thought. “No, at least none that came to see me. Just a handful of grumpy old men and wealthy ladies complaining about hangnails. Why?” Sherlock shook his head, watching his hypotheses crumble and fall for the second time. 

***

It was very rare for either of them to get sick, shocking really, considering how poorly Sherlock was known to take care of himself, but winter had sent a bad case of the flu around the Clinic, laying out nearly half the staff, including John. He’d been laid up in bed for three days with Sherlock, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson trading off bringing him tea and soup. He’d made Sherlock promise not to go off and get into any trouble when John couldn’t be there to get him out of it, so Sherlock had kept himself busy in the labs at Bart’s, or pilfering old case files from the Yard. Molly had been especially helpful, bringing him tea and offering him first take on some of the more interesting bodies brought in, and even Lestrade had refrained from snapping at even his most ridiculous requests (he’d told Anderson to take off his socks and stand with his nose in a corner, just to see if he would). 

Gratefully, John appeared to finally be on the mend, propped up in the corner of the sofa with an afghan over his lap and watching some baking competition show when Sherlock made it back. He was still pale, and his nose still held onto the telling traces of pink, but he smiled when Sherlock walked in, watching as the detective shed his gloves, coat, and scarf before heading into the kitchen. Despite his absolute apathy of the act, Sherlock did in fact know how to brew a proper cup of tea, mummy would never have forgiven him if he’d deleted the information, and a few minutes later, he was carrying two cups and a newspaper over to the sofa, settling himself down on the cushion next to John and handing over one of the cups, setting his own down on the coffee table and opening the paper. 

John accepted the cup with a hum, taking a sip while Sherlock settled, before leaning over and pressing a kiss to the skin just beneath Sherlock’s eye. He froze, feeling the sofa shift as John settled back in to watch telly and drink his tea. He kept his eyes on the paper in front of him, but found himself not processing a word he was seeing, brain too busy spinning off again on what had quickly become one of its most confusing puzzles. He could not figure out why John kept kissing him, but even more, he could not figure out why he did not find it remotely repulsing. Mouth kisses had always been repulsive; they were wet and slippery and sharp and you could taste everything about the other person from what they’d had to eat to the last person they’d kissed or had sex with. Mouth kisses were like watching two leeches going at it. So why did John’s kisses leave his skin tingling and all he could think about was what would take for it to happen again?

The sofa shifted. John was leaning forward and setting his empty cup on the coffee table. John had never been a fast drinker when it came to tea, preferring to sip at it until it had nearly become lukewarm. Had it really been that long? A hand was tugging gently at the paper, slipping it from Sherlock’s hands and folding it before coming back to touch gently under his chin. He allowed his head to be turned until he was looking just past John’s right ear, unable to meet those eyes that would see straight through him. “Sherlock, what’s been going on with you?” 

Sherlock blinked. John continued to watch patiently. Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I… I don’t understand.” One of John’s brows went up. Sherlock continued. “I don’t like mouth kisses. Ever since I was a child, they’ve disgusted me. The idea of them has disgusted me. Swapping bodily fluids with another person, being able to taste everything that’s been in their mouth, kissing strangers and not knowing if they have anything they could pass on to you, the whole idea is just repulsive. But…” 

He lost his words. For the first time in a long time, he lost his words. John hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word or made a sound. His oh so expressive eyes gave nothing away, and that scared Sherlock more than anything because for some reason, he didn’t mind that John kissed him. He  _ liked  _ the idea of John kissing him. What if he’d scared John off and now John wouldn’t kiss him anymore? He opened his mouth. It felt cotton dry. “For some reason,” he continued, voice so quiet he wondered if John could hear it. “For some reason, I don’t mind when you kiss me. I like it, when you kiss me. And I don’t understand why your kisses are so much different.”

John just continued to stare for a long time, not saying a word, just watching Sherlock’s face. Sherlock felt something tighten around his spine. What if John thought he was a freak? What if he was disgusted? What if he left?

And then the thoughts were fading out, because John was leaning forward. He was moving slowly, purposely. Giving Sherlock plenty of time to react. This time, Sherlock was ready, and when John’s lips met his cheek, Sherlock let his eyes close, let himself analyze the warmth, the feel. John’s lips were warm, soft, a little chapped. They didn’t pucker too much the way he always saw girls doing; so dramatically they looked like ducks. It was whisper quiet, not noisy with wet, kissy sounds or lip smacking. He could hear the faint pulse of John’s heart, could feel the feather-light brush of an exhale. It wasn’t long, maybe the span of three resting heart beats--nothing like the thrumming going on behind Sherlock’s ribcage-- yet somehow managed to be short enough to not be excessive, and yet too short for his liking. 

He unconsciously leaned after it when John pulled away, and when he could finally make himself open his eyes, he found John watching him again, one brow inching its way towards his hairline. “So?” he asked, “what is your verdict?”

Sherlock blinked. Opened his mouth, and closed it again. One corner of John’s lips quirked up. “How about I share  _ my  _ observations first, and you can let that fantastic brain process. Sound acceptable?” He waited until Sherlock nodded before continuing. “Kissing is not an exact science. No two people are going to kiss the same, but there are a lot of common misconceptions about them. One common one is that kisses have to be wet, have to be passionate, and likely have to involve tongue. I’m going to assume that these have been your prior experiences, and they were not necessarily the most enjoyable.” 

He shook his head, the memories cropping up, unwilling to be deleted. “You never did that,” he said, mind still spinning for something to latch on to. Some point of reference that would make it all make sense. “You don’t do that, not even with your girlfriends, or whatever it is you choose to call them. You don’t publicly show affection or make out or…” he trailed off, unsure of how to put it into words. It was a feeling he was uncomfortably coming accustomed to the longer he was around John and the contradictions that wrapped around him like a blanket. The corner of John’s mouth quirked up a little more. “I let my partner set the pace, whatever that may be. Sometimes she, or  _ he,  _ isn’t comfortable with what society considers ‘normal’ displays of affection.” 

Something in Sherlock’s brain clicked, puzzle pieces he didn’t even know he had fitting together. John hadn’t gone out with Marcy since their interrupted date, nor had he mentioned seeing anyone new. Did that mean… He looked up. John was watching with a look of fond amusement. Under normal circumstances it would have looked good on him, but right now it just reminded Sherlock of how long he’d been mulling over the puzzle that was John’s kisses. “You were courting me.”

It wasn’t a question. John just shrugged. “Honestly I thought you hadn’t noticed the first time. The second really had been as much habit as intentional, but I didn’t realize you hadn’t figured it out until last week when you’d asked me if I’d had any child patients at the clinic.” Sherlock nodded, the final pieces falling into place as his mind went quiet for the first time in weeks. He smiled, shifting in his seat enough to be able to fully face John. The doctor was still watching him, looking relaxed to the casual observer, but Sherlock noted the tension lying in his shoulders and the slightly brittle corners of his smile. “You said you only go at the pace your partner wants? So what if your partner wanted something more than a kiss on the cheek?” 

This time he watched with his own amusement as John processed his words, watched the tension slowly bleed away until John’s smile was bright and genuine. “Then he would need to be the one to initiate it. After all, he’s made it rather clear that mouth kisses are disgusting.” 

Sherlock swallowed, pushed aside the intrusive thoughts, and leaned towards John. For his part, John stayed still, hands resting on his lap, eyes closed in such a complete display of trust that Sherlock felt his last bits of apprehension fall away. He leaned in the rest of the way and let his lips meet John’s properly for the first time. 

It wasn’t perfect, their noses bumped at first and he wasn’t sure where to put his hands, but John remained true to his word. He returned the press of lips on lips, but let Sherlock set the pace, control the pressure and where the kiss was going. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but soft and full. They were slightly damp from John wetting them out of nerves, but it wasn’t slobbery or slimy like others had been, and there were no attempts made by a tongue to invade his mouth. 

It was… nice. Nicer than Sherlock had been expecting. True to his word, John gave as well as he was being given, but made no move to push it farther. There were no wild attempts to eat his face, no slobbering that made him feel sticky and gross, and John smelled neither of alcohol, nor of sticky sweet cherry. The slightly wet, musty smell of sickness still clung to him, but under it was the smell of tea and gunsmoke, and something warm that reminded him of well loved jumpers and winter nights curled up with a book. He smelled comforting. He smelled like John. 

Sherlock leaned into the warmth that was John, tilting his head and deepening the kiss. His lips parted just slightly, letting John’s bottom lip slip between them. He nibbled on it experimentally and was rewarded with a low groan from John. He sucked on it again, feeling John’s mouth part beneath his and suddenly he could taste him. He tasted of tea and toothpaste and the chocolate biscuits Mrs. Hudson tried to pretend she didn’t have, but that always seemed to make an appearance when someone was feeling poorly. Sherlock whimpered, and suddenly it was gone. John was pulling away, even as Sherlock chased after him. He opened his eyes. John was flushed, pupils blown and lips dark and wet, and Sherlock realized with a sense of smugness that he was responsible. They were both breathing hard, something Sherlock had not realized earlier, but he could feel his lips tingling, and when he licked them he could still taste John. 

“Why did you stop?” he asked, hearing the pout in his voice and not caring. Kissing John was better than anything he’d had before; better than any kiss, better even than any drug or case. John was smiling, and it looked even better kiss drunk than it did under any other circumstance. “I don’t want you pushing yourself too far too early.” 

Sherlock huffed. “What happened to letting your partner set the pace?”

“I am. But you’re also the one who said mouth kisses were disgusting. I don’t want you getting ahead of yourself.” 

The logical part of Sherlock’s brain understood, even as the primal, hedonistic part wanted to dive back in and continue kissing John. He had to remind himself though that even if he was on the mend, John was still fighting off his case of the flu, and already was looking a little worn down. He sighed. “Fine. But we will do this again, yes? You’ll continue to… to surprise me with little signs of affection when appropriate?” 

John’s eyes were bright, and before Sherlock could blink he’d leaned forward and left a kiss on the end of the detective’s nose. “Of course! Maybe even at a crime scene, unless you have any serious objections.” Sherlock felt a feral grin spread across his face. “Can you just imagine the looks on Donovan and Anderson’s faces?”

The two fell back into the couch in peals of laughter, the sound drowning out the telly Sherlock had forgotten was even on. As their mirth faded out, John settled sleepily into the corner of the sofa and offered up a tired, teasing smile. “So, do you still think mouth kisses are disgusting?”

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought, reanalyzing data for a moment before coming to an inevitable conclusion. “No, they are not  _ completely _ disgusting, if shared with the right person.”

John’s smile remained long after sleep had reclaimed him, and when Sherlock got up to make himself a fresh cup of tea, he pressed a light kiss to the blond man’s forehead. Mouth kisses were, in his opinion, still disgusting to watch, and he had no intention of sharing them with anyone else, but kissing John was different. Kissing John was nice, and he felt he would need to perform more before coming to a solid conclusion on the matter. 

~FIN~

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I loved writing this, Confused!Sherlock is one of my all time favorites!!  
> Kudos and comments are ALWAYS loved!  
> XXOO HidingintheInkwell


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